


Posh Boy

by Aelfay



Category: Pretty Woman (1990), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Escorts, Alternate Universe - Pretty Woman Fusion, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Soft sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-07-28 04:40:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16234394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aelfay/pseuds/Aelfay
Summary: John Watson as a professional prostitute? You fucking know he's not bending his pride to be one. John Watson got back from the war, decided civilian life was boring, and took a dangerous job deliberately. John Watson, prostitute, has actively helped very powerful men stumble their way into prison because they treated other sex workers badly and John Watson doesn't Stand for that. John Watson is teased about being "a John" but he's not really one, he just sees people who end up in this life not because they had a choice but because they were tossed onto the streets, and he bandages them up and he gives them tips and if they don't want to sell their sex he finds them other jobs.John Watson is a sex worker in the same way that Olympic ice skaters are just people who slide around on ice.Sherlock Holmes, who inherited a business from his father and lets his brother run it and hates the upper-class nonsense he's stuck in because he wants to make a difference in the world, Sherlock Holmes who owns an entire estate but prefers to live in a flat rented by an old lady in the middle of London, Sherlock Holmes -- stalls out a car on a street corner in Soho at 3 am. And meets John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Confession: I've not seen Pretty Woman. I know, I know! I just have an addiction to the AU, and after a while of writing snatches of this, I've finally made it semi-coherent enough to post. If it's your jam, enjoy.

Sherlock is already upset because he's had to go to a charity gala and Mycroft made a comment about his experiments. His PA, Molly, is so sweet but also can't seem to manage to keep truly terrible people from finding him, so he had to have a talk with Magnussen. He hates Magnussen; Magnussen only ever talks about business, but he does it in a way that makes Sherlock feel like he's wanting to buy Sherlock instead, and it leaves him feeling grimy in his skin for hours after. He'd snuck out but his driver apparently has a fucking American manual car where everything's on the wrong side and it's fucking with his head, and he's managed to stall it, and he's tired. He slams his hands on the wheel, grips, and shouts like a maniac for a moment, because fuck this, fuck it so much, fuck it, he has a liver in the fridge and he wants to go home and dissect it, that's all, and if he manages to get liver juice on this suit and ruin it, so much the better, he hates this suit.

There's a knock on the window, and Sherlock pants at the dashboard. He’s coming down from the shout and realising there's probably a constable just outside his window, ready to scold him for blocking the road. But it's not a cop. It's a man with a beard and sparkling eyes and slicked-back hair, wearing a suit that Sherlock likes much better than his own, even though it probably cost a fraction of the price. The man is looking amused, which takes Sherlock off-guard, because... well. Most people would be frightened, or annoyed, or defensive, not amused.

"Need help?" the man asks, and Sherlock realises rolling down the window might be good because the man's voice is all blocked. He wants to hear it better. 

When it's down the man repeats himself, and Sherlock says, sounding defeated even to himself, "I can't get the damn thing to work, bloody Americans."

The man laughs. Sherlock feels better but continues, "Guess I have to get a cab," in a low mutter, "if I can even get this hulk of metal to a parking place." But the man smirks.

"Twenty quid and my cab fare back to Soho, and I can get you and the car to your place in one piece," he says. Sherlock looks up at him, deduces him quickly, and snorts.

"Where did you learn to drive American cars?" he asks. What he means is "why would a prostitute need that particular skill," and they both know it.

"Army," the man replies. Sherlock nods.

"Always something. Allies?"

"Mhm," the man says. Sherlock’s already getting out of his car to shift to the passenger side, and the man steps back to let him out, then slides in as Sherlock's rounding the car. Sherlock knows his heart is racing. He knows this is insane, but he's already thinking of having the man up to coffee, he's already wondering if he's actually going to book a prostitute for the first time in his life, and he's actively pushing away the thought of what Mycroft would say.

For a moment Sherlock considers giving the address of a hotel, because after all, this man is a stranger. But then he decides he doesn't care, and he actually does want that liver. He’s still pretending to himself that he isn't going to ask this man up to his flat. He gives his actual address, and the man nods. Sherlock watches him shift the car into gear and has a brief moment of anger that it's so easy for him, but then notices the man's fingers on the gearstick and has a small internal conniption about their callouses and where he might feel them. The ride is quiet: Sherlock doesn't know what to say and the man seems content to say nothing.

"Here," Sherlock says, and points out a parking spot as they pull up. He gets out, pulling his wallet out of his pocket, and watches the man emerge from the car. He blurts out, "You're a sex worker."

The man faces him, unashamed, with that amusement still lingering on his lips, and nods. "Yes."

"How much for a week?" Sherlock says. His brain catches up a moment after. He internally panics, _A WEEK?!_ even as his heart is singing. The man raises his eyebrows, glances over Sherlock, glances over the car, then glances up at the flat.

"Why don't you make me coffee first," he says, voice mild, even though his stance is firm and planted. Sherlock feels his stomach squirm. "And then I'll give you a number. After all - if you decide to decline, I'll still have to wait around for a cab."

Sherlock nods, heart pounding, and leads him inside.

Sherlock leads the way up and has a very particular feeling that the man is watching his arse. Instead of bothering him, it gives him a weird tingly feeling that he has to shake discreetly from his fingers before they'll allow him to put the key in the upstairs lock. He opens the door, looking around his familiar clutter. The man steps in behind him. Sherlock flicks the switch,sees what the man is wearing in the full light, and blurts out, "The green makes you stand out for customers."

"Oh?" the man says, voice still mild, still amused, but this time the amusement is making his eyes crinkle as well. "And here I thought it brought out my eyes."

"Coffee," Sherlock says, in panicked response, and whirls into the kitchen, as the man looks around.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Writing John as a sex god is incredibly fun. I'm just going to state that outright. If you haven't had the chance to write sex-god-John, consider it. It's a good time.

As Sherlock's frantically wondering if he has milk in, the man says, "Is that a real skull?" then pauses, and answers himself, "It is. Right."

"It's an old friend. Well. I say friend. I mean. It's-" Sherlock waves a hand, tries to stand, and hits his head on the freezer door, clutching it instinctively as the man turns to him. Sherlock's mortified.

The man comes over, guides him to a chair. "Let me see," he says, and gently feels around it. "Bit of a bump, but you'll be fine."

Sherlock nods, blinking hard at the shirt in front of him, suddenly tired and upset and hoping the man will leave soon so he can cry and feel like an idiot without an audience.

"Five thousand pounds," the man says, and Sherlock blinks, and looks up at him. The man's looking amused again, but the wrinkles around his eyes are softer. "For the week."

Sherlock swallows, nods, and says hoarsely, "And twenty pounds for the drive."

"And twenty pounds for the drive," the man says. He’s chuckling slightly, and his hands are still in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock reaches for him, arms going around his waist, face burying itself in the man's shirt, and the man allows it, body open, still stroking Sherlock's curls as if it's not at all odd that a grown man is clutching him like a teddy bear, as if Sherlock's allowed comfort whenever he likes.

Of course he is. He's paying for it. Rather than the thought putting him off, it makes Sherlock snuggle in closer; he's got limited time, after all, and if he's paying, he's allowed. He lets himself sink into the soft touches, the scent of the man he's clutching, the thought that this man went out looking for tricks in a pine-coloured suit, and found Sherlock instead.

When Sherlock pulls back he’s red-faced, and he swallows. “I have a liver - an experiment - work,” he says, “But if you want to. Make yourself comfortable—”

The man pauses and says, “I don’t know your name yet.”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock says, looking up at him. The man nods, meeting his eyes, brushing a curl out of his face. 

“D’you have tea in, then, Sherlock?” he asks, stepping back politely. Sherlock nods. 

“Tea’s in the right cupboard, above the kettle,” he says, and adds, “Milk is in the fridge, sugar’s on top of the micro in the box that says _for organs only_.” 

He pauses, waiting for the man to give him the expression that says he regrets this, but instead the man just turns to put the kettle on. “I’m John,” he tells Sherlock, rummaging for tea and a mug, asking him, “This one clean?” and smiling at Sherlock’s nod. 

“There are snacks in the small cupboard under the sink,” Sherlock says quietly, overwhelmed just at the presence of the man — John — in his kitchen. He feels like he’s dreaming. “You can use the telly, too. Is there anything else —”

“The shower,” John says, humming as he pours tea. “Do you mind? Been a long day.”

“Of. Of course I don’t mind,” Sherlock stutters and then recovers himself. “To the left down the hall... there’s a dressing gown, and towels are under the sink.”

John nods again, setting the tea in front of Sherlock. “I’ll make my own when I come back out,” he says and disappears into the bathroom. Sherlock’s left sitting there, heart going double-time, on the stool in the kitchen. He does eventually pull out his liver and get to work, taking sips of the tea. 

Sherlock ends up focusing deeply on his work. He’s vaguely aware of a deep-scented waft of humid air, of padding feet around him, the clink of porcelain and the crinkle of a bag of chips. However, none of this prepares him for what he sees when he eventually lifts his head from his work. 

John has commandeered his sofa, watching the telly in Sherlock’s dressing gown. There's a now-empty mug next to him as he munches on chips, watching something Attenborough’s narrating, from the sound of it. He looks completely at home, fitting into 221B like a missing puzzle piece, and Sherlock feels his heart thump wildly. 

In an attempt to bring back order, he puts away his equipment carefully, bagging and binning the liver, but as he washes his hands he notices they’re shaking. He sits at the table again, on the lower wooden chair, pretending to focus on his notebook but instead looking right through it. Maybe this was a mistake. 

Padding footsteps, and then a soft rustle of fabric. John’s face appears in his line of sight as he kneels between Sherlock’s knees, one hand on each as he looks up to scan Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s heart skips once and he opens his mouth, desperate to say something that will fix the mess in his head, but John shakes his head softly before he can speak. 

“I don’t do kisses on the mouth,” he says, “But what else would you like?”

Sherlock’s mouth goes dry at the sudden proposition. He doesn’t know. He’s well-versed in himself, of course; he knows what he likes to do to himself. But he doesn’t know what he likes others to do to him. The prospect is daunting. 

John reads his face, scanning it, and then stands again. For a moment Sherlock’s worries he’s going to leave, but instead, he slips off the dressing gown, and Sherlock’s hands clench on the wooden armrests of the chair as he forgets how to breathe. John is effortlessly sensual, comfortable in his body, unafraid of Sherlock’s eyes devouring the sight in front of him. John folds the dressing gown and bends, giving Sherlock quite the view, before placing it on the floor and kneeling again, using the fabric as a pad for his knees. 

Sherlock knows he’s hard, the sight having made his cock strain at his trousers, leaving them distended and wet. John’s hands slide from his knees upward, and Sherlock’s thighs tremble once nervously before opening. He does want this, even if he’s not sure what this is. It’s already more intimacy than he can ever remember having. John’s eyes are steady on his, though, and when his hands move to the placket of Sherlock’s trousers, Sherlock only remembers to breathe out of sheer stubbornness that he doesn’t want to faint. 

John taps his thigh twice. Sherlock realises what he means and lifts up enough for John to slide down both trousers and pants. He doesn’t know where the condom came from, but a moment later John’s rolling it on him with a practised hand. The first touch leaves him breathless and hazy, blinking down at John, dazed, as the man smiles at him gently. 

“Relax,” he says, “I’ve got you,” and then he’s placing a soft kiss on the head of Sherlock’s cock, and Sherlock’s absolutely certain the world has ended somehow because the same mouth which formed those words is opening around his cock and sucking lightly. Sherlock’s thighs are shaking uncontrollably now, one hand lifting to his mouth so he can bite his thumb and pant through the sudden wave of pleasure. 

John knows what he’s doing, but more than that he seems to know how to read Sherlock, taking each bob of his head slowly, gauging what Sherlock needs each time. Sherlock’s head rolls against the wooden back of the chair, trying to ground himself as he forces his hips not to writhe, but it’s so good. And the whole time John’s looking at him, those eyes fathomless as he doesn’t let Sherlock hide, drawing out pleasure after pleasure. 

When Sherlock comes it’s like oblivion. 

Coming back to is like waking up after a long dream. The condom’s gone, and he’s wiped up, his trousers still around his thighs, John’s arms around him. He’s drawn Sherlock closer, leaning him forward so he's slumped into the man’s shoulder, panting softly still. Sherlock’s trembling, in contrast to John’s quiet steadiness. 

“I — do you —” he tries to offer, but John smiles gently and shakes his head. 

“Not now,” he says softly. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Sherlock nods, but his legs are trembling like a newborn fawn’s, and after John helps him stand, he’s left clutching John’s arms for support. John’s eyes crinkle, and he bends and lifts, and Sherlock squeaks, clinging round his neck, breathing _oh god oh god don’t drop me_.

“I won’t,” John says, voice amused, and Sherlock realises with a flush that he heard. “Is the bedroom the one past the loo?” Sherlock nods, and John easily carries him to it, letting Sherlock open the door, then stepping through and setting him on the bed. 

“Stay,” he says, and disappears, before coming back wearing the dressing gown again, and holding Sherlock’s toothbrush, toothpaste, and a cup to spit in. “Here.”

Sherlock brushes his teeth, as John disappears again, presumably to do the same. When he’s done John comes back to collect the lot, deposit it in the bathroom, and then he steps in again, and asks, “Where do I sleep?”

A moment of panic, and then Sherlock remembers that it’s only a week, and he’s still trembly, and remembers how warm John had been. “Here?” he ventures, like it’s a question, and John smiles, and carefully gets into the other side of the bed. 

“Good night,” he says, politely, and Sherlock swallows, reaching for the light. 

“Good night, John.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock doesn't know why John matters so much. John knows, but he's not sharing.

The next morning Sherlock wakes curled against John’s chest, body warm with sleep. He’s so comfortable he doesn’t want to move, but he’s also internally panicking at the idea of having to shift away.

“Breathe,” John says, and Sherlock flushes at being caught out, looking up shyly. John chuckles, smooching his forehead. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Sherlock says softly, knowing his face is pink still.

John hums, not moving away before asking, “What are we doing today, then?”

“I-“ Sherlock says, and pauses, organising his thoughts. “I have a meeting,” he explains reluctantly, not wanting John out of his sight, really — but then has a thought. “If you’re amiable, would you mind shopping?”

“Shopping?” John’s voice is amused, and Sherlock hastens to explain himself.

“I have a dinner meeting,” he says, “Across town. I’d like you to accompany me.”

“I have suits,” John says, and Sherlock pauses, before flushing.

“I’d like to give you nice things.”

John considers this. “How much were you going to spend on the suit?”

Sherlock bites his lip. “Same as mine?”

John nods. “I’ll use your card and buy a suit at my price point, and whatever’s left over of the budget I can use as I please,” he bargains. Sherlock perks up, immediately curious about what John would spend the extra money on, but instead of questioning, he nods.

“All right.”

John is the one to gently ease Sherlock to sitting, and from there into the shower. John strips without a hint of embarrassment, but Sherlock hesitates, shy. John steps forward and gently begins to undo his buttons.

“This suit is going to need a thorough cleaning and a press, I’m afraid,” he says, as the wrinkled fabric parts to reveal Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock isn’t thinking about the suit. He’s thinking about how it would be so easy for John to spread his fingers over Sherlock’s skin.

Sherlock wonders if John’s noticed that his breathing has gone tight. He wonders if John can feel the tension in his skin. John’s fingers, calloused and sure, are still undoing buttons, but then — but then — John lets his hands settle on Sherlock’s waist, and draws him close. 

Sherlock collapses into him, trembling, and John says gently, “I’ve got you. So sensitive. Just breathe, I’ve got the rest.”

Sherlock nods, and slowly the rest of his clothes slide to the floor. He feels hypersensitive in his skin, and wonders if this is how people feel when he flays their excuses and disguises so their true intentions are on display. 

“Shh,” John says, and now he’s drawing Sherlock into warm water. The soft strokes of the cleansing cloth pass in a haze of sensation and shivers. 

Sherlock experiences intimacy and quakes. 

John seems unperturbed by Sherlock’s reactions, hands deft and gentle, and Sherlock finds himself focusing on John in a somewhat futile attempt to stay calm. It’s easy to focus on John because he’s so full of information, and most of it seems contradictory. The tight coils of muscle underneath skin contrast with the gentleness of his touch. The inherent confidence in his stance contradicts his choice of profession. Sherlock has more questions than he has answers, and yet John’s touch feels like an answer in its own right. He leans into it, skin-hungry and needy, unable to even feel ashamed of himself anymore. The hardness of his erection seems like an afterthought to the tingling of his skin. 

“If I wash your hair, would you fall over?” John asks, and the tone surprises Sherlock by being nonjudgemental. Sherlock considers the night before, fingers sunk in his curls, searching for the bump to his head.

“I don’t know,” he admits, which is a rarity.

“All right,” John agrees, with a slight nod. “Best kneel, then, lad.” It’s gentle instruction, not an order, but Sherlock treats it as one anyway, immediately going to his knees. 

A moment later he realises his mistake as deft hands sink into his curls, sending sparks down his spine, and he’s eye level with John’s cock. John’s fingertips brush his scalp, and Sherlock wonders how he survived without this, even as his mouth waters at the sight in front of him. 

“Eyes closed,” John says, “I don’t want to get soap in them.” Sherlock complies, shuddering, lips parting, and John murmurs quietly, “Lovely, Sherlock.” There’s a soft whine on the next pass of John’s fingers, and it takes Sherlock a while to realise it’s coming from him, as he tilts his head into the palms of John’s hands. The part of him that’s paying any sort of attention to his surroundings notices John’s slow breath and wonders at it but then lets it go. The fingers in his curls don’t hesitate, lathering the shampoo and leaving him moaning at the massage to his scalp. 

“Going to rinse,” John warns him gently, and Sherlock nods blindly before feeling one hand leave his head, presumably to get the showerhead. Ah, yes; a moment later warmth cascades over his head and down his back and chest, dripping between his legs as he tries not to whimper. The hand still in his curls carefully shifts them, the stream of water coming at different angles as John presumably makes sure no suds are left. When the showerhead leaves Sherlock reaches forward, blind, groping John’s knee and then clutching one-handed at his thigh. 

“Conditioner?” he says. It comes out like begging, and he’d blush but he’s far past embarrassment now. The low chuckle above him absolves him of guilt anyway.

“Of course,” John says, “Those curls will frizz without.” There’s a click — the conditioner bottle, Sherlock deduces — and then fingers are combing through his curls.

This time he can’t control the way his head drops forward against John’s hipbone. It’s warm and firm, and that’s expected — what’s unexpected is the length against his cheek, and he gasps. 

John is hard. The knowledge has him shuddering suddenly, breath in tight pants, and even as John considers pulling away with a lean, Sherlock clutches his thigh again, closer. He trembles and suddenly realises what they must look like, Sherlock on his knees, shaking at John’s feet. 

He wants. He wants to know the feel of him, the taste, he wants to know if he can do to John what John did to him the night before. His stomach has swooped down and back up again, and he parts his lips, afraid to ask. 

The showerhead returns. Sherlock hadn’t even felt John’s hand leave his curls to reach for it. Conditioner rinses down his back, down his face, dripping off his nose and chin. He should lift his head, but he knows that if he does, the want will write itself on his expression, and John will know. He doesn’t want John to know. It’s too terrifying. 

It’s only a week.

John waits as Sherlock gets his breath back. John is patient as Sherlock stands on wobbly legs; he’s kind as he wraps Sherlock up in a towel and dries his hair (patting, never rubbing, his curls will frizz). Sherlock stumbles as he grabs the towel John used the night before (the faint smell of cologne) and tries to reciprocate the care. John seems to find this amusing, or perhaps endearing; there’s a twitch to his lips and crinkles near the corners of his eyes that says Sherlock’s done something good, anyway. Sherlock wants that expression to cross his face again, so he finds John a spare toothbrush, and carefully shaves and brushes his own teeth and styles his hair before darting into the other room, wanting to find John clothes that will work while he’s out buying a new set.

It’s woefully insufficient. He’s got very few clothes that aren’t professionally tailored, which means they’re all too slender and tall for John’s frame. Finally, he manages to find a pair of track-pants that have a drawstring waist, and a few vests and jumpers that might fit because they’re too big on Sherlock. He sets them out, biting his lip.

When John comes in after finishing his own personal hygiene routine, Sherlock realises how foolish it looks and wants to sink through the floor. John had looked so handsome the night before — even now he wears Sherlock’s second-best dressing gown as if it were a king’s robe, settled on square shoulders confidently. Sherlock can’t put him in these old ratty things — it certainly wouldn’t make John smile, stupid, stupid of him — he looks down, mortified, but then John’s stepping next to him with a hum.

“Be nice to have a new vest on,” he murmurs, “Thoughtful of you, thank you.” Sherlock glances up, wondering if he’s being mocked, but John’s eyes are crinkling wonderfully at the corners, confident and straightforward, and Sherlock feels his stomach settle so quickly that it gives him vertigo for a moment. 

“If you get yourself some extra things for your stay,” he says, one hand grabbing the other before he can fidget, “I’d be pleased if you put them on my card.”

John scans his face and then nods once. “I’ll do that, ta.” His smile looks genuine, and Sherlock knows his cheeks are pink, but never mind. “You have a meeting,” John reminds him gently, “Why don’t you dress, I’ll quickly slip into my old things and see about tea before you leave.”

Sherlock swallows and nods, turning to dress hurriedly, slipping into the automatic, shirt, trousers, blazer, shoes. No tie; the night before had been enough. When he’s put together, he comes into the kitchen to find John calmly ready with a to-go cup of tea, and he fumbles with his wallet, then with his rubbish drawer as he searches for his spare key. He hands both the key and a card to John in return for the cuppa. “Please—“ he begins, but when he meets John’s eyes he loses what he’s about to say.

John pockets the key and the card. “I’ll get myself the things on your card,” he promises gently, and Sherlock feels his shoulders drop with relief. “Now go before you’re late, your driver’s already here,” John continues, and a hand at the curve of Sherlock’s lower back guides him to the door, carefully locking up after them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My last exam is on Tuesday, please save my soul.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a suit.

Sherlock spends all day fussing over what John might be doing. Mycroft has narrowed his eyes at him at least six times over the board table; Sherlock’s never been good at paying attention to these things but he’s normally good at hiding how much he’s ignoring it. 

Today, he can’t even manage that. He’s got the fidgets, wondering if even now John’s trying on suits, attempting fittings. For an entire two minutes he forgets to breathe because he has the sudden thought of John in braces. When he hisses a breath inward he remembers where he is and struggles to school his burning face, hands clenching on his thighs.

By the time he can go home he’s trying hard not to second-guess everything he’s chosen over the past 24 hours. He can distract himself with thoughts of John in various suits, but that only lasts until he gets to the door, and that’s when his hands start shaking.

It opens before he can get his key into the lock. He looks up, and all the air leaves his chest at once. He knows his lips have parted, that his eyes must be bright and his face flushed, but he can’t help it.

No tie, he notes, and traces John’s suprasternal notch with his eyes. The black suit is perfectly fitted, and the shirt is a gridded pattern, light blue. There’s a watch, practical and unobtrusive, sitting on his wrist. Bit loafers with a buckle in good taste are snug on his feet, black socks warming his ankles.

Sherlock wants to sink to his knees even before he looks up – and then he does look up, and John’s wearing glasses, greying hair slicked back. Sherlock whines despite himself, and John’s eyes crinkle at the corners, behind the lenses.

“Come in,” he says, as though he’s not standing in Sherlock’s doorway. He takes Sherlock’s hand, and guides him in, closing the door neatly behind him. His touch is gentle, guiding Sherlock to the sofa to sit, shaky legs only barely making it.

Sherlock clings to his hand once he’s seated, and John crouches in front of him, looking at him warmly. “Hello, you,” he says warmly, and Sherlock trembles once with a combination of lust and nerves. “How was your meeting?”

“Good,” Sherlock gasps out, and John’s eyes crinkle further.

“That’s good. We were going to a dinner meeting?”

Sherlock nods, mouth dry, and John pauses, scanning his face. Something he sees must affect him, because he shifts to sit next to Sherlock, and hands guide him closer. Before Sherlock really understands what’s happening he’s being held close, head resting on John’s shoulder.

The suit smells of John already. John, his cologne, his heat and an odd faint chemical scent Sherlock can’t remember the name for. “That’s it. Did you know you’re shaking, Sherlock? Your face stayed still but your hands are cold and trembling.”

Sherlock shook his head against John’s shoulder. Now that John’s said it, he can feel his fingers shaking, the irregular heartbeat. He hasn’t had an anxiety attack since university, and now the sight of John in a suit has managed it. Sherlock is unsure whether that says something about John, or Sherlock’s self-control.

“Just breathe for me,” John urges gently, putting a hand on his chest to feel his lungs. “That’s it. Easy now.” The hand makes his heart stop and then restart as Sherlock sucks in air, then releases it in a gust.

“You didn’t buy that suit today,” he says, and John chuckles softly.

“No. I had it at home, but I did get—”

“A new shirt, and shoes,” Sherlock finishes, voice surprisingly steady for the way his hands are shaking. John nods with a wry smile.

“Yes. I can give you the difference back if you like,” he sounds slightly reluctant, and Sherlock blinks. John isn’t badly off, he knows – no-one who can afford a suit like this is poor – and he doesn’t seem high-maintenance. A wife? Children? Where is the money going?

The part of his brain that knows the less savoury portions of London is trying not to explore darker avenues. At least he knows John is drug-free: Sherlock is all too familiar with what an addict looks like, and John has none of the signs. “You can keep the difference,” Sherlock decides, “After all, you did manage to get a suit, regardless of when.”

John’s smile is gentle. “Thank you.” It’s sincere, and Sherlock wants to preen, but John’s moving on, distracting him from the last of the trembles in his fingers. “What’s this dinner meeting about, then?”

Sherlock scrunches up his nose. “I’m supposed to be buying out a business.”

“Supposed to be?” John asks, catching onto his distaste, and Sherlock sighs.

“The board says it’s a merger, but we all know they’re going to shut the place down. We don’t need the staff and it’s a way of getting rid of competition. Lay them all off, regardless of how skilled they are.”

“Sounds like a stupid way to do business,” John says, and Sherlock can’t help but agree inwardly.

“They’re all too busy vying to defend their own positions to really look at the talent offered,” he says, “Insecure, the lot of them.”

“And you?” John asks, and Sherlock considers it.

“I don’t care,” he says, after a long moment. “And I do care. I feel stupid going, but if I don’t work with the company then I lose my stake in it – that’s how the trust is set up.”

John nods slowly, rubbing his back. “I see,” is all he says, and Sherlock sighs. If he were a better man, John wouldn’t have that moue in the corner of his mouth.  It leaves eventually, but only because Sherlock knows John isn’t the sort to brood. Sherlock reaches up curiously, touching the spot where the lines on his forehead are now smoothed, and John’s eyes flicker to his, slightly amused.

Sherlock pulls his hand back, but John takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “Let’s go buy out a business, then,” he says, “If you can.”

Blinking at him, Sherlock asks, “If I can?”

John hums. “Well, you can figure people out easily,” he says, and he meets Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock could swear there’s a twinkle in John’s – “and wouldn’t it be too bad if you happened to mention something that put off the competition from agreeing to the deal? You’ll have to watch your mouth.”

For a moment, Sherlock’s offended, but then he catches on. “Oh,” he breathes, and blinks at John. “Obvious.”

John’s eyes twinkle back at him. “Is it?” he asks mildly, and stands, helping Sherlock up. Sherlock grins and pulls on his coat as John tugs on his own, and then he’s leading the way out the door with a twirl of his coat-tails.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit shorter, but plot development has to happen sometime. :) Thank you all for reading and commenting. I was feeling nervous about this piece and the comments really gave me the motivation to get through the block I had.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is a marvellous dinner date.

Stepping out on John’s arm, it turns out, is a very nice experience. For one, there’s a hand pressed to the small of his back, gentle, guiding, not pushy but very _present_ in a way that makes Sherlock’s stomach do a flip every so often. There’s also the way John opens every door for him, ushering him through without a hint of pretentiousness or condescension. Sherlock has the odd feeling of being cared for without being paternalized, which is very strange. The only person he normally allows to care for him, aside from his brother, is Lestrade, and Lestrade is decidedly paternal about it (as far as Sherlock can figure out, Lestrade has decided to adopt Sherlock. Sherlock doesn’t know how he feels about this yet).

The odd consciousness of John continues all the way into the restaurant, where they find out they’re early. The host guides them both to a table, and John pulls back the chair for him, sitting next to him once he’s comfortably seated.

“You’ve been here before,” Sherlock observes. It’s a decently expensive place, rather nouveau riche for London but in one of the newer buildings by the Thames; as a result, even the more traditional gentlefolk have decided the place is acceptable for the sake of the view. John’s admiring it as Sherlock speaks, and he glances away from the window to smile at Sherlock.

“A woman I worked with used to love this place until they changed the recipe for their pork collar,” John says, and Sherlock translates _worked with_ to _work for_ internally. He blinks, then realises how small-minded he’d be to assume John was gay rather than bi, or pan. Of course, perhaps he was straight and simply “gay for the pay”, but – and Sherlock’s not experienced, but he’s not stupid either – John doesn’t suck cock like a man who’s forcing himself to do it.

Though that could be the acting required to keep such a job, Sherlock reminds himself. It’s only a week, and it’s paid work. He’d be a fool to forget it.

“Don’t get the pork collar,” he says, instead of commenting on the rest. “Got it.”

“Sherlock,” a man says, and Sherlock stands and turns in time to greet a burly man in a straining waistcoat. Next to him is a man with the sort of rugged looks that get one cast as a superhero these days, Sherlock observes, as he offers a hand to the burlier man.

“Mr McCarthy,” he greets, offering a smile and the title, even though Charles has left off any sort of formality by addressing him as “Sherlock.” He’s older, assumes that he’s allowed to address anyone as he likes, but he’ll throw a fit if Sherlock calls him Charles.

“This is my son, James,” Charles says, “Thought he ought to come along, his inheritance and all.” He scoffs as Sherlock offers a hand, but the handsome younger man is staring at John with a sort of dazed look on his face. It takes him a moment to realise what Sherlock is doing and shake. Sherlock would sympathise if his stomach hadn’t started to roll.

“Good to meet you, James; I’m Sherlock Holmes, as I’m sure you know, and this is Doctor John Watson.”

“A doctor,” Charles says, sitting himself down before Sherlock can offer. “Very neat, but not quite in the business.”

“I think it’s wonderful, helping people,” James says, sitting without taking his eyes off John, whose smile is slightly tight. Sherlock doesn’t know why.

“Yes, well. It’s been a while since I was in practice,” John says, but Sherlock knows he’s worked recently, even if he can’t put his finger on how he’s deduced it at the moment, because Charles has started talking again.

“Yes, well. Shall we get straight down to brass tacks, Sherlock? Your group wants to buy my business.”

Sherlock nods, taking in the way James suddenly jumps and looks at his father miserably. Ah, a pinch beneath the table.

“Indeed. You’ve received our most recent offer?”

“I have, and it’s paltry,” Charles scoffs, and Sherlock’s suddenly tempted to buy the business just to take the nasty man down a peg, but then thinks about the employees, and even James across the table. The man doesn’t deserve to have his family legacy ruined by his hellacious father, even if he is still covertly looking at John like a beaten dog glancing at a forbidden treat.

“We thought it was a decent offer,” Sherlock says, “Considering your profit margin last year.”

He’s interrupted by a waiter, who comes by to ask about wine; Charles orders the most expensive glass of champagne with a voice meant to carry to the next table, then John glances at Sherlock and orders them both a moderately priced red. James, red-faced, is hastily scanning the wine menu when John speaks. “Do share our bottle?”

The polite offer is met with a relieved nod, and the waiter barely has left before Charles is off again.

“Our profit margin last year was affected by that ridiculous business in the Caribbean,” he says, as though hurricanes were a mere inconvenience, but an inconvenience that had been purposefully created to upset his nerves. “We’ll be right as rain this next year, and I’m sure under your business management, you’d thrive.”

Sherlock actually does think the business could do well, but certainly not under his hand. Only someone personally motivated could manage it. He is noticing that James seems on edge, as though he’s biting back comments he wishes he could voice. Attached to the company, then, despite it being the family business.

“I’m not sure,” he says, and turns to John, placing his chin on his palm, elbow propped on the table. “What do you think, dear?”

John, to his credit, doesn’t even blink at the endearment. “I’m sure you could manage whatever you liked,” he says politely.

Charles is taken off guard, as Sherlock meant him to be. His son, however, starts in his seat, and Charles glares at him before continuing, gruffer than before.

“Can you, now? You feel competent to run a business, then, Holmes?”

Ah, Holmes. Sherlock always knows he’s in trouble when someone says his last name like that. He waves a hand, riding the edge of ‘camp’ and his normal behaviour. “It can hardly be that difficult,” he says blandly, and even James seems a little upset at his casual disregard, but Charles is puffing up, growing furious. Homophobia is such an easy trigger point, Sherlock muses, as Charles’ chest expands like an accordion played badly.

“My company, Holmes, has been my _life’s work_ since I was younger than you, young man, and I’m not at all sure a poof–”

“Do excuse me,” John says, and leans toward James across the table. “Would you mind sharing my starter as well? I’m not quite hungry enough for a full.”

“Of course not,” James says, cheeks going pink. Charles is now having an internal fit, Sherlock notes, and if they were in a less formal arena he’d be shouting. As it is, he’s a wonderful shade of purple.

“He absolutely will not. We’re leaving, James, get up,” he snaps, and stands just as the waiter arrives. The tray, precisely balanced before Charles’ overpriced waistcoat, is jostled wildly as Charles attempts to enter the space the waiter already occupies, and the champagne in its glass goes crashing over.

John manages to catch the unopened bottle of red before it shatters itself on the floor, Sherlock notices, as Charles sputters indignantly at the state of his front. There is very nearly shouting, but then James quickly takes his father’s elbow.

“Father, we mustn’t spend any more time with these hooligans,” he says, even as he winks over his father’s shoulder at them both. “Look at what they’ve done to your suit!”

“Indeed,” Charles huffs, and then, “Quite. Right indeed. Very much so,” and in a similar vein he continues to loose gusts of hot air on the way to the door, his son gathering their coats as an anxious waitstaff usher them out.

Sherlock turns to the waiter only to find that John is already talking to him, gently assuring him that it wasn’t his fault and the champagne, glass, and wine will all be paid for, even though the manager scurries over to assure them they needn’t bother. Sherlock smiles, sets several notes on the table, and asks if it’s all right if they just bring the bottle home, as it seems their meeting has been unfortunately cut short.

A cab ride later and he’s entering 221B, bottle in hand. As soon as the door closes he’s snickering, and the snickers start to turn to laughter.

“Do you mind,” he gasps, “sharing my starter as well?”

John, who is hanging up his coat, glances over at him. At the sight of Sherlock laughing, he starts to grin, watching Sherlock lean against the wall for support.

“Oh, it’s not the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever said,” he replies, and Sherlock’s laughter turns deeper in his throat as John adds, “I _did_ invade Afghanistan.”

Sherlock loses his composure completely at that, one hand coming up to cover his lower face as he laughs harder than he has in years, and John’s grin widens until he starts to giggle, shifting to take the bottle from Sherlock’s hand and pop the already-loosened cork with a deft twist of his fingers. Sherlock’s laughter only pauses so he can reach and take a swig of the wine straight from the bottle, and John’s expression nearly makes him choke on the Pinot Noir.

He hands the bottle back, laughter dying slowly as he manages to swallow, eyes gone dark as he watches John’s expression go mild again. “You’re infuriating,” he tells John, who raises an eyebrow.

“How so?”

“I can’t figure you out,” Sherlock complains, wiping wine off his lips with the back of his hand. “Doctor, soldier –”

“Whore,” John finishes wryly, and takes a swig from the bottle himself, to Sherlock’s surprise. “You seem to be doing fine figuring me out. How did you decide I was a doctor?”

Sherlock has to consider it, going over the subconscious deductions he’d already made. “Bedside manner,” he starts, and John’s second eyebrow lifts, and Sherlock snorts at the inadvertent pun before continuing. “You saw the syringe in James’ pocket but you weren’t concerned, and you would be if it were drugs; you noted him for signs of a high, then noticed the finger pricks, and realised he’s diabetic. Then later… it was more confirmed when you ordered a red with low sugar content; it’s easier for him to control, and you knew he was worried about choosing. He trusted you already though, because I’d said you were a doctor by then…” he trails off.

John’s lips are parted, and his tongue flicks over them automatically before he says slowly, “Yes. You’re right, of course. Incredible.”

Sherlock reaches for the wine but then stops. It isn’t what he wants, he realises, and has a moment of remembering how James had looked at John at first, like he was seeing a dream come to life.

“I’m going to play my violin,” he says instead, and turns away.  


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soft smutty smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have officially graduated University, and I get a gap year! I'm excited to be back to writing things for fun rather than coursework.

Sherlock loses track of time when he plays the violin. It’s a place for his mind to stop its racing and focus only on the next note, the next draw of the bow across the strings. When a calloused hand takes his, stopping the next movement, he’s taken off-guard, eyes wide. John’s hand holds his steady, not jerking the bow or the violin, careful of the instrument.

“You’re blistering,” he says quietly. “It’s lovely. It is. But you need to stop before you bleed.”

Sherlock looks at his other hand, pausing. He’s right; the fingers on the strings have worked through their callouses again. Outside it’s dark. He doesn’t know what time it is. John’s showered, beard trimmed, in a robe over his clothes.  A while, then.

“I paid for the week,” he says, and his voice shakes. He’s past caring about if he sounds collected. John’s response is merely a tilt of the head, a soft nod. Sherlock shudders once, and gestures at the armchair John had liked before with the hand holding his bow.

John sits without questioning him, looking regal and settled in himself in a way Sherlock never is. Sherlock sets the violin on his chair, wiping the rosin dust off, and then turns, sinking to his knees, looking up at him. He knows he’s the one paying. He knows. But John’s worth worshipping, now, on the battered throne of Sherlock’s armchair, and it’s all Sherlock wants to do.

“Can I?” he asks, and a hand strokes through his curls, steady and kind. Sherlock’s eyes fall closed, a breath shuddering off his lips. The hand draws him forward; something’s inexplicably caught in Sherlock’s throat. He doesn’t want to open his eyes.

The soft sound of a zip, and then he’s drawn forward again, the scent of John intensifying in a way that makes his gut drop and his blood sing. He parts his lips automatically. The guiding hand draws him in, softness brushing his lower lip, and he’s moaning, taking John in his mouth with a shudder. His hands come up to clutch at John’s trousers with white-knuckled desperation as he figures out how to breathe through his nose, how to work his tongue and lips around John’s length.

It’s overwhelming. There’s taste, so much, salty and dark on his tongue. He knows he’s probably terrible at this – too eager, tongue darting everywhere to get more of the taste, and he can’t take John very far at all, he has no finesse. All he has is eagerness. He wants John, wants him so badly his chest aches with it: if this is the way to show him, Sherlock will do this for the rest of the week. It’s not like it’s a hardship. John in his mouth is everything he wanted in the shower that morning. Sherlock feels centred for the first time since he’d knelt on the shower floor.

 John’s hand is careful, never pushing him too far, but stroking his curls and guiding him gently; when Sherlock pushes himself too far and nearly gags himself, John tugs him back. When he forgets to breathe, John gently pulls a curl, making him suck in a breath. He’s patient with Sherlock, not urging him on, not yanking or demanding. Sherlock’s immeasurably grateful for the steadiness of the contact. It still takes a few minutes before he can bear to open his eyes.

When he does, his hands clutch John’s trousers tighter, creasing the fabric terribly, he guesses. John’s got his head back, his own eyes closed as his chest heaves in great slow breaths, his face creased with a quiet pleasure that makes Sherlock moan around him. He wonders how often John gets this, and immediately wants to be _good_ , wants to make John remember this even after the week is up, whenever he sees someone else on his knees.

Sherlock changes his movements, eyes on John’s face, paying attention now; when John hitches a breath, he remembers the flick of his tongue, does it again. With time he finds what John likes, what makes his thighs tremble and his jaw shift to suck in a breath through his teeth. Slow bob of his head, a suck, a twist of the tongue, hollowed cheeks and pull back slowly, repeat, a steady rhythm; he wants John to fall into it. He does, beautifully, body unravelling for Sherlock, thighs spreading wider even as they tremble. John’s hand is still careful, but less guiding and more simple contact; John’s face creases with a million small lines. Sherlock feels like god and supplicant equally, powerful and worshipping at once at the altar that is John Watson’s feet.

“Close,” John warns him, voice low, hoarse and quiet. Sherlock wants to hear his name in that voice. He keeps the same rhythm, eyes fixed on John’s face. John’s polite and doesn’t thrust at all, hips iron-still as he comes, but it’s enough that Sherlock knows it’s running down his chin. He swallows hard, fast, he doesn’t want to waste a drop. Some tiny part of him wants to keep this – John’s cells, John’s molecules – and know that they’re in Sherlock after the week is over. He knows that’s not how biology works but can’t bother reminding himself.

John opens his eyes when it’s over, lifting his head with what looks like an effort to look down at Sherlock still on his knees. He must look a mess, hair awry and chin wet with drool and come. He doesn’t want John to look. Instead, he carefully tucks John away in his trousers, tugging his handkerchief out and scrubbing his own face, pulling back to stand. He offers his right hand, the left still blistered and sore. “Sleep, I think,” he says, trying to sound casual, but his voice is cracked and dry.

John looks up at him for a long minute, taking in that Sherlock’s fiercely ignoring his own arousal. Sherlock’s heart speeds up, worried, but then John takes his hand, standing smoothly.

“Sleep,” he agrees quietly, and Sherlock’s shoulders fall slightly, relieved, as John smiles. “I’ll make the bed if you want the toilet first.”

He nods and goes to brush his teeth and wash his face, something aching in his chest.

Five days left.


End file.
